I used to be one of those freaky people how enjoys cleaning. Nothing was more satisfying than putting in a couple hours of work, and then lean back and enjoy the end result. Gleaming surfaces, neat shelves, the whole works. And knowing that it would pretty much stay that way for another week or so? Heavenly!
Fast-forward several years. These days I can hardly get 15 uninterrupted minutes to do anything, never mind cleaning. When I am forced to clean (ie, someone is coming over, or there is such filth that the outdoors looks cleaner than the inside), I try to do it as fast and efficiently as I can to make sure it, at least, looks clean from a distance. Load dish washer, scrub sink and stove top. Wipe counters, molding, walls and wainscoting (I have 2 dogs who love to roll in dirt outside and wipe it off inside). Sweep floors and vacuum. Mop floors and shine mirrors and windows. Throw papers into a neat pile on a corner of the hutch. Put out trash. Done!
Then I turn around to admire my work. There's a peanut butter-dirty spoon in the sink. A sock on the living room floor. A ketchup drip down the cabinet door. A dirty hand print on the pantry cabinet. A wrapper on the counter. A smudge on the window. Water drops on the mirror. And I want to cry, unabashedly bawl my eyes out. Cleaning has become such a thankless task, that I avoid doing it. I mean, what's the point? It feels like such a waste of time and effort, when I could be reading a book, playing a game, going outside...
